


Begin Again

by Demon Dreams (ScribeAzari)



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Art, Exploring, Gen, Henry had a disreputable uncle, Making the best of things, Reminiscing, a note, also time is messed up, and someone's watching, ties into Lost and Found, time for a break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 02:40:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18562267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeAzari/pseuds/Demon%20Dreams
Summary: After so many loops of the same thing, time and time again, Henry decides he's due a bit of a break. The lower levels can wait a while longer, and so can the machine - perhaps there's still more his own department has to offer.





	1. Time for a break

Why was he still doing this? Another loop, another tally to add to the list - what did it ever change? It was long past a year now, if all those tallies were to be believed. How many, if any, had there been before he’d started to remember and leave those marks? How long had it been on the outside?

There was no way to really be sure, when every time he’d been evaporated back into the eye-burning suddenness of colour on Joey’s apartment, the calendar was almost unchanged. Same month, same year, different day not even in the correct order. Joey always had the same tired old spiel, though - how many times had he practised that? How many others had been given similar spiels?

It was hard to reconcile the Joey of today with the one he’d once known. He’d been open and genuine, once, with his heart on his sleeve. There’d been a spark in him, glittering in his eyes as he spoke of the success they’d someday have - or indeed any of their ideas. He’d been - for lack of a better term -  _ animated. _ Almost like one of their own toons.

What had  _ happened _ to him? Henry hadn’t wanted to admit that he’d changed, not at first, but… he just hadn’t been  _ listening _ any more. He hadn’t been  _ him _ any more - like a stranger walking in his skin. That… only seemed to have gotten worse after Henry’d left.

Perhaps he’d already been working on this even back then… Maybe not the Ink Machine, but whatever project might have  _ become _ it. Sure seemed to corrupt everything else it touched, so why not Joey too?

Leaning against the wall, Henry sighed, still sat on the first floor. Joey could well have just… turned out to be like this. How could he know? It wasn’t as if he could  _ ask _ when he was too dazed to even make a break for the apartment door each time.

That, at least, was getting a little better. He’d been able to steal some of Joey’s silverware this time - no more eating soup without a spoon. Maybe next time he could grab something from a cupboard. It would be nice to have some other food… That was a long way off, though. Longer still because he had no intention of setting the Ink Machine going for a good while yet.

What would happen if he just… did nothing? He badly needed a rest. Ink had seeped into every pore and made him fresh and unafflicted by age or arthritis, and he had barely begun this loop, but in his soul he was bone-weary.

Nothing had ever killed him up here, as much a fright as Bendy always gave him. Why  _ should _ he press on right away? Was that even what he’d done the first time? He didn’t recall, but he doubted it would have seemed as natural to immediately attempt a ritual upon discovering its existence.

That had always been more Joey’s thing, trying every little trick he could find or think of to jump-start that spark of magic in him he’d always ached for. With a dry, hollow chuckle, Henry supposed he’d finally succeeded, hadn’t he?

There’d been a time when Henry’d admired that determination, despite being more resigned to his own lack of magic even when they’d been only boys. He hadn’t realised that it might consume Joey - and everyone around him. What had he done? What had he found? It was probably useless to ponder now, but while he sat idle, his mind was apt to wander.

Maybe he ought pick some of those locked doors, at least to see if he could? With a groan, Henry hauled himself to his feet, still half expecting to hear his joints click and creak. Nothing. When would he get used to that? At least his footfall still sounded right along the stained boards.

It took a little while to gather everything he thought might make good lockpicks, but that was okay. He was in no hurry - and besides, Uncle Shane always said that haste was a lockpick’s undoing. Uncle Shane had said a lot of things Henry was sure his parents wouldn’t have wanted him to hear, but it was faintly astonishing how often his disreputable tips and tricks came in handy.

Of course, this was a bit different to having locked himself out of the house again, but at least the locks did seem to be  _ real _ and not simply imitations. With a final twist and click, Henry was actually getting somewhere. The thought of finally seeing something  _ new _ was enough to lift his spirits a little, and he slowly pushed the door open.

The room beyond was relatively modest, most of it taken up by a wooden contraption someone had set up using at least one barrel. There also, for some reason, seemed to be a little portable stove, like one someone might use to go camping - or perhaps attempting a stay in a ‘spooky’ run-down studio… He hoped no hapless adventurous souls or anyone needing a free roof over their head had gotten trapped here.

Wait, was that a  _ tap _ on the wooden contraption? There were cups scattered around, too, and a single saucepan. Scrawled on the wall, someone had left a message a little out of the studio’s usual tone.  _ Don’t forget to boil. _ Did that mean what he thought it meant? Could there be water in this thing? Maybe it contained filters… Wasn’t that how you made water safe to drink, filtering and boiling it?

The bathroom taps only spewed ink, so it couldn’t be from the studio pipes - but Allison and Tom’s fish had swum in real water, hadn’t they? It was looking more and more likely - but where would the water be coming from? Slowly, Henry tilted his head back, gaze following the makeshift pipe it bore up towards the ceiling.

There was a hole.  _ There. Was. A. Hole. _ Stunned, he stared up at it in sheer disbelief for a moment, his eyes wide. Those dripping sounds he’d totally filtered out  _ hadn’t _ been the ever-present ink - they’d been a bizarre mix of rain, slush and snow falling into the funnel from that single small, transfixing hole.

The sky swirled impossibly with blues, pinks, oranges, greys and sparkling black - colours the studio was starved of mixing and flowing as though liquid but not quite able to merge. It wasn’t simply as though a time lapse or frozen moment was captured out there, it was more as though the very concepts of time, day and night had no meaning whatsoever.

He  _ could _ gather all the chairs and desks, to pile them up and try to reach the hole - but could he  _ survive _ out there? Would he even reform? What if he became stretched out in time, aware and forever unable to escape? No thank you.

Tearing his gaze away, Henry held the saucepan under the tap and poured himself some refreshingly clear water to boil. He couldn’t realistically grapple with whatever affront to time and physics in general that was out there, but he  _ could _ have his very first cupful of proper water in over a year, and that was most definitely something. He wasn’t really thirsty, hadn’t been for quite some time, but it was the principle of the thing.

The sound of heating water put him in mind of tea, a soothingly familiar association, and he relaxed in the sole chair the room boasted. Sure, there were no teabags, but it was a pleasant thought nonetheless. Soon enough, bubbles heralded his drink’s completion, and he turned off the stove to carefully pour it into a cup.  
  
Just holding that cup was  _ wonderfully _ warm, reassuring and cosy. He spent a moment or four just enjoying that, but he couldn’t resist taking a sip for long.  _ Oh. _ he paused, eyes closed for a moment as he felt the warmth spread through him. That was lovely… Slowly, wanting to savour that feeling, he continued to drink.


	2. Making Changes

Henry wasn’t sure how long he spent in the water room - probably a while - but he eventually felt refreshed enough to venture out again. Hearing the lock click shut behind him as he shut the door, Henry wondered whether this counted as him now having a sanctuary of his own. Well, if it did, then it was about time he got one. Maybe having somewhere of his own would help, particularly containing what it did.

None of the other locked rooms contained anything nearly as interesting, disappointingly, but he _did_ find quite a lot of art supplies. Considering what department he was in, that did make sense.

Well… since he wasn’t in a hurry, why not take his cue from the other trapped souls and make use of them on the walls? Art had usually been good for calming himself down, when he hadn’t been under a time crunch. He could draw the people he knew, write their names upon the walls - perhaps like memorials, perhaps like reminders, in case they ever wandered up here. They deserved to be remembered, even if they couldn’t remember themselves.

He couldn’t depict anyone who’d joined after he’d left, so the space he would have given to them became other things - plants, animals, places, whatever he could think of to bring a touch more hope and life to the place. It felt… almost fulfilling, really. He was doing something that, in some small way, might make someone’s life a little brighter.

The floor might be stained, but he could add to it, make flowers and rocks and streams with fish along the old boards. With the aid of piled chairs and desks, he could spread clouds and birds across the ceiling - and even add glowing moon and stars in the hidden layer of sight Allison’s old tool revealed. It had taken him a fair number of loops to work out how to create that glowing effect, but he thought it was worth the effort. Trees, bluebells and creatures could join the remembered on the walls, the posters appearing to be stuck to those trees.

With every new brush of ink, he made the department more his own, and that was something he could hold onto. He wished he could show Boris, but… if he descended, would he even be able to get back up again?

The cutouts were still up to their usual tricks, watching him while he worked, popping up in odd places. He didn’t really mind any more - it was sort of company, and they’d never hurt him. Not only that, but he’d never been hurt _because_ of them either, even when he’d broken them on previous loops.

Maybe there was a range to how far the demon-enraging effect could spread. If Bendy was in the depths and a cutout broke up here, would he notice if he wasn’t expecting it? Come to think of it… Bendy had never harmed him up here even when he _did_ appear. There had been loops when he’d tripped up in his escape, falling to the ground - but though the walls had bled ink, the demon had never seized him.

Could it be that the bizarrely materialising boards that always appeared between them had the same stopping power as that door below that led to Boris? Henry wasn’t sure why either of those would be more resilient than the walls Bendy walked through, or a _vault door,_ but since when did any of this make any sense anyway?

Not even all of his own memories made sense, recalling different music, different passes to Sammy’s sanctuary, different rooms - even different _Bendy._ Hadn’t the Ink Machine once sat on a full wooden floor? Hadn’t Bendy once been… rather more… blobby? Less skeletal? Things _were_ changing, but aside from perhaps the realisations and changes he’d been making this time, they weren’t good. At least there was a fair chance that this floor was safe, for whatever reason.

The feeling of being watched was fairly ever-present in the studio, but from time to time the impression of eyes on him was particularly strong. Still nothing attacked him, but it kept on prickling up the hairs on the back of his neck. He had a peculiar feeling that he ought to know what it was, that it wasn’t just the cutouts staring and ducking back around the walls. Had he forgotten something?

It was possible… He didn’t always remember the previous loops until partway through, or a loop along. What could he have forgotten? Had something different happened last time? What could it have been? _Who,_ perhaps..?

The more he thought about it, the more sure he was there was missing memory lurking, the sense of familiarity growing stronger. “Is someone there?” He called, peering around  as he wandered through what he’d set out as his own territory. Every so often, he heard a clatter of feet, light and rapid - but turning the corner never revealed anyone.

He wasn’t alone up here… Not to mention, the lightness of that footfall felt familiar, as though he’d heard it before. It sounded like someone small scuttling around, but not at all like the lurching of the Butchers. For a moment, he half-hoped it might be Bendy, healed and back to his timid self, but… somehow, he doubted his luck was that good.

Wandering back towards his desk, his gaze landed in something new left by his old sketch - a clumsily handwritten note. _I remember what you did, Henry._ He stared, startled - he’d barely done anything in the studio this time, unless remodelling counted, so… the only ways someone could remember something he did were if they remembered him from before, or… they remembered through the loops.

Nobody he knew of had remembered through the loops before except him - but what if that had changed? Who could have written this, and just what was it he had done?


End file.
